Observations from the other side of mid-life

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My oldest daughter is 35 years old today, which is surprising considering I’m 39, or at least I still think like I’m 39 and not what I thought 54 would be like when I was 39. Anyway, I wrote this column in 2001 when Carlene was 18 (and I was 37) when she was a senior in high school and wondering where she should go to college. I love this girl to pieces, and I wish for her the same things now as I did then.

Blackbird Fly (published in The Clarion News, May 2001)

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night / Take these broken wings and learn to fly / All your life / You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”

You asked me, “What do you want, Mom? What do you think I should do?” And it was clear by the tone of your voice that you expected me to say something customary like, “I just want you to be happy,” but with a choked-up guilt-ridden undertone that said “…but keep in mind I’d be happy if you stayed here in Clarion.”

Weren’t you surprised when I didn’t?

I don’t have eyes in the back of my head for nothing, my daughter. Yes I want you to be happy, but I’ve learned a thing or two about you in these 18 years and I know the life you’ve secretly dreamed about for years will die if you don’t leave this town, your home, and see for yourself what lies beyond these hills.

You have an adventurous spirit and a cautious heart. The combination has served you well so far and you must trust it won’t let you down in the future. You’ve learned there is no monster under the bed, no boogey man in the closet, no sandman, and no such thing as ghosts, yet you know there are bigger mysteries to solve, other truths to uncover, out there somewhere all your own. To not live where your heart and head can be free or to deny yourself that place of self-discovery would be placing yourself on a certain and predictable course, and God knows after years of listening to me tell you what the world is like you’re entitled to discover the world for yourself.

So…what do I want? That’s a question I’ve been thinking about and trying to answer since you were born. This is what I’ve come up with so far:

I want you to be happy in your own skin, to be at peace with your decisions, to love God, and to visit the Rocky Mountains in the winter.

I want you to drink good wine and see the midnight sun and walk along the Champs-Elysées with your best friend.

I want you to have babies when you’re ready and visit your grandparents once a year. I want you to never forget your sister’s birthday and to go to Jasper once in awhile and place flowers on your dad’s grave.

I want you to never know an overdue bill, an IRS audit, or a broken tailpipe you can’t afford to fix. I want you to concentrate on what you do that makes you successful and to not dwell on failures.

I want you to come home from wherever you are when you’re homesick and to go back again feeling stronger for having been home again, because I’ll always be here for you and you can wash your clothes while I make you manicotti and chocolate cake. Your room will still be purple and I won’t rent it out or turn it into the hot tub room like I threatened.

You see, I don’t care where you go to college as long as you get the education you need to be what you want to be.

I don’t care where you lay your head at night as long as it’s warm and safe and, when it’s right, with the person who loves you more than life.

I don’t care what you do for a living as long as it doesn’t hurt other people, that it envelops your God-given talents and gifts, and that it gives you satisfaction and affords you the kind of home you can relax in at the end of the day.

I trust you. I have faith in you. But mostly I love you, and love is the reason I can let go. I’m going to hurt for awhile and I’ll probably cry all the way home after helping you move into your dorm, but I don’t want you to feel you’ve caused me pain because you will not have. Love is just like that sometimes.

I’ll miss the smell of your perfume floating up the stairs after you leave for school. I’ll miss hearing you tell me good night and feeling your kiss on my cheek before you go to bed. I’ll miss seeing your face every day, our spontaneous talks in the kitchen and the way you play with the dogs.

But while I’ll miss you very much, I know I’ll still be your mother when you’re frustrated, your mom when you need advice and your mommy when you need money or just a hug.

Your moment is here, my girl, and you’re ready to fly. And that is truly what I think you should do.

The Internet can be a brain suck, for sure. Then there are sites like Dictionary.com that can inflate the brain, sort of. For instance, the word “pajamas” comes from the Persian words pah, meaning “leg,” and jammas, meaning “clothing”. The British spell it as “pyjamas.” If I were in London, I’d still be in my “pyjamas”. But sadly I’m not. In London, that is. Here in the U.S., I most certainly am still in my “pajamas”. Happy New Year to me.

And Happy New Year to you! Have you made any resolutions? Established any goals for 2018? Still in your jams? I made no resolutions, but I do have a goal: to see The Moody Blues inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in April!! I’ll stand in the parking lot if I have to, but I need to be there. IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME THEY WERE INDUCTED! Whoever thought inducting Dusty Springfield, Kiss, and The Animals before The Moody Blues needs some serious musical educating.

Looking back over 2017, there are several more things in my Best Of grab bag than I thought there would be, given how discomfited so many of us felt last year at this time. I had little hope for 2017, but a lot of good things happened. Jim and I had fun growing our on-the-side antiques business at a local antique mall. Zuzu the Wonder Dog moved in. I completed the fifth of six semesters of my master’s program (Graduation: May!).

And I solidly fell in love…

… with poetry.

I had the great fortune of teaching a poetry workshop this summer at the Indiana County jail. I’d taught a few classes in the women’s block, but this was the first time that my students were from two men’s blocks, and the first time the topic was all poetry.

I’ve always liked poetry, even though I have zero patience for epic poems like “The Faerie Queene” or the Sylvia Plath-ish ones that make me want to bang my head against a brick wall. But poetry asks us to pay attention to a moment for a moment. It gets in your face and says, “Look at me! What do you see?” It turned out that reading poetry with a group of men in jail was not a bad way to spend summer vacation.

Since then, I’ve fallen in love with poetry, and I wake up to a poem every morning in my email, thanks to Poem-A-Day from poets.org – another non-brain-suck website. While not every poem is a wake-up call or invites contemplation, each one is someone’s attempt to make sense of some part of their world. What speaks to you might not speak to me, but that’s the whole point!

I really like this book: Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry. It’s a collection of poetry selected by Billy Collins when he was poet laureate (2001-03). Collins’ own poetry is accessible (meaning it shouldn’t usually make you want to bang your head against a brick wall). I use his work in my classes, and his Ted Talk is a lot of fun. It’s not a brain suck, I promise.

Suffice to say, poetry will help get me through 2018. I hope it lends you some comfort, solace, and contemplation, too.

Below are a few of my favorites. Please send me some of yours! Add them to the comments.

“I injured my hand rather gruesomely last spring and it took a longer than expected time to heal. That injury triggered memories of earlier, more traumatic injuries, which got me thinking about how my instinct is to always reassure everyone I’m okay, whether I am or not.”

For more than nine years (2006 to 2015), Zen Bag Lady and Lynn’s Weigh were spaces for me to talk out loud, contemplate, negotiate, vent, and convince (mostly myself), and they acted as dressing rooms in which to try on different perspectives and attitudes that may or may not have always fit. I morphed Lynn’s Weigh with Zen Bag Lady (see my About page), because I realized that they are and always will be one and the same. They are timelines of change, both within and outside my control.

I’ve wanted many times during this 888-day hiatus to post a new blog, and to do that I thought I would have to explain the spiral of changes that have transpired, changes which still leave me a bit breathless. Revisiting some old posts recently, I see that explaining stuff isn’t why I blogged. I blogged because I had something to contemplate, negotiate, vent about, and try on. Putting myself out here again isn’t comfortable, god knows, but maybe no one will notice.

I recently heard someone quote Benjamin Franklin: “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” I’d heard that quote before, many times, and I certainly can’t argue with it. But old Ben was wrong. There are way more certainties in this life. Emotional and physical spaces will always be in flux, and our bodies and perspectives will change, even if we desperately hang on to dogmas and calorie counters. Even when we think we’re stagnant, we change. That is for certain.

Marty began writing essays years ago and self-published a collection of 100 of them prior to his seizure. It took him awhile to “pick up his pen” again after that fateful day in June 2011, but he’s been honing his skills, and I felt the one I’m posting below is his most thoughtful to-date. His words really kicked me in the pants since I feel lately some of my “at-bats” have been wasted. Read on and see if anything he says resonates with you, too.

Swinging The Bat

Like many fans of professional baseball, I enjoy sitting on my patio on a nice summer evening listening to my favorite team on the radio. I also enjoy watching my favorite team on television, too. Whether my team wins or loses really doesn’t matter. Where they are in the standings doesn’t matter either. I still turn on the radio or the TV to catch the game when it is on. I guess you can say, “Hope springs eternal” among true baseball fans.

There is one thing I cannot tolerate in baseball. That one thing is lackluster effort. It annoys me to no end when a player goes up to bat and then strikes out without even swinging the bat. They simply stand there with a zombie…like stare and watch the pitches go by until the umpire calls them out. These are not wildly thrown pitches out of the strike zone, but perfectly hittable balls. Then they simply turn and head back to the dugout. What a wasted at-bat.

I’ve always felt that you go to the plate with a bat in your hands to swing at pitches to try to get a hit. Standing there and watching as the ball goes by is unacceptable. You only get three or four chances to hit during a ball game. Why waste those opportunities with the bat resting on your shoulder without at least giving it a go? You can’t get a hit or a home run without swinging the bat. I have no time for people who do not try.

Now, I don’t mind it when a hitter goes down swinging at the plate. There are times when a particular pitcher is good and he is “on his game,” so to speak. That pitcher is throwing good stuff that is tough to hit. It happens. He may be throwing some nasty curveballs or sinkerballs that would test even the best of hitters. But as long as you are trying your best to hit his best pitches and you still strike out, there is nothing to be ashamed of. You gave it your best. Who knows? You may get the best of the situation next time you meet him again. The point is you tried.

I find this to be like life. We are faced with challenges all the time. Life has a way of throwing fastballs, curveballs, and screwballs at us. What we do about these pitches determines what kind of people we are or will be. Do we just give up as we approach the batter’s box and determine beforehand to not even swing our bats, to not even try our best, as we watch those pitches go by? Or, do we resolve to try our best to grip the bat a bit differently or stand in the box a bit differently and take a hack at the tough pitches?

Ever since going on disability two years ago after losing much of my memory capabilities, I found it easy to get discouraged and even angry because of what I lost. It was also easy to just stand there at the plate and watch as those pitches went by. But, there are people and organizations that will not allow me to fall into that trap. They know that people like myself still have much to contribute and they are very good at helping people like myself to realize that and to…well…contribute.

Thanks to these people, I am swinging the bat. I volunteer twice a week at a local food shelf warehouse where I am very much needed and very much appreciated. I participate in a golf league and a bowling league for disabled people. I am not languishing around thinking about what I cannot do. I may strike out occasionally, but that’s OK. I may not be quite the person I once was, but that, too, is okay. As long as I am swinging the bat, my chances are much better that I’ll hit a double or a single.

What kind of person are you? Are you content to watch pitches go by as the umpire calls you out? Are you satisfied with lackluster and mediocre effort? Do you want to swing the bat and give it your best shot? We don’t have many opportunities or much time in life to turn things around. We need to start swinging our bats now! We need to give our best to life now! Tomorrow may be too late. We never know what might happen tomorrow. Ask me. I know about that.

I was one proud Grammy this morning as I watched my granddaughter, Claire, complete the Pittsburgh Marathon’s Kids Of Steel program, in which she not only ran 26.2 miles over the course of the last two months, but she raised $2,505 for the Animal Rescue League of Pittsburgh.

Claire ran 1 mile on 25 days and ran the final 1.2 miles with her dad, the day before the Pittsburgh Marathon, in which he and my daughter are going to run the half. (Daughter as in the one who had her fourth baby just two months ago. She rocks really hard!)

Here’s what the morning looked like:

We arrived downtown and put Luca and Mae in one stroller, while baby Audrey slept in another stroller (they’re saying, “Cheese!”):

The finish line:

The medals:

The bananas:

Auntie Carly and Papa Larry making signs:

Audrey with her sign:

Luca on Uncle Ben’s shoulders with his sign:

Mae on my shoulders with her sign:

Claire running for the finish line. She ran in the tutu my awesome running Diva friend, Sondra, made for her. Claire’s all about the high fives:

Claire with her medal:

More of the tutu:

Claire with her mom:

Claire with her certificate and her dad:

It was so encouraging to see so many kids and their parents participating in the Kids of Steel program. Kids of all sizes and economic backgrounds ran their hearts out today, and the crowd didn’t let them down. They were cheered on by thousands of people, and the looks on the kids’ faces as they crossed the finish line was of pure joy. I have no doubt this experience will encourage them to continue running, or at the very least, stay active. They may not understand the physical benefits of exercise, but they certainly got a huge dose of the emotional aspect.

I’m going to learn to drive ride this (A reader corrected me saying you ride a bike, both as the person who is in charge of it and the person riding on the back. It seems confusing, but if that’s the rule, that’s the rule!):

This is the Irishman’s Harley, a 1999 Sportster 883, that I’ve had the pleasure of riding on the back of only once and only briefly because spring didn’t get the groundhog’s memo that it’s supposed to start warming up.

I rode on the back of a motorcycle for the first time two years ago (see “A Mental Miracle”) and went from scared-to-death to badass-in-love in zero to 60. Motorcycle Owner and I only dated for a few more months, so I didn’t get too much additional riding time, but the thrill of the ride never left me.

Knowing this, a friend suggested I take the a Motorcycle Safety Training class after he took it and bought a used Honda Sportster last year. It seemed absurd at the time. Learn to drive ride a motorcycle? Such a foreign concept. As liberated as I am, driving riding a bike seemed like a guy thing. Women rode on the back. But a seed was planted, and like the crocuses in my yard – despite the wicked weather – it will bloom.

One in 10 motorcycle owners are women. Not great stats, but those women are out there, and I am determined to join their ranks. I just have to learn how to drive ride one first, something I know almost nothing about. But, hey, I didn’t know anything about driving a stick shift when my dad took me with him to test drive a 1974 Mustang in 1980 when I was a junior in high school. He drove us to a parking lot, got out of the car, and said, “If you drive this back to the dealership, I’ll buy it for you.” Believe me, I learned REAL fast how to drive a stick.

When I married farmer Bruce, he taught me to drive a skid loader, an old Ford pickup with the stick on the column (the 3-speed “H” pattern), a tractor, and a 10-speed Mack truck. Getting behind the wheel of an enclosed vehicle is always fun. But there are no steering wheels on motorcycles. Or doors or windows or anything holding you in. You shift with your left foot, including your toes, and you brake with your right hand as well as your foot, and people warn you about how dangerous they are and they call people who love motorcycles “organ donors” and you’d think that would be enough to scare me away.

But it doesn’t. This is just the kind of challenge I’ve been looking for. Something so outside my comfort zone that I need field glasses to see it. It also gives me something more fun than my 2013 taxes to save for.

I’ll start small (and used), perhaps a Suzuki Marauder GZ125. It weighs what I did at my heaviest!

Or a Yamaha Virago 250. Not sure I can pull off leather pants, but I’ll definitely get chaps.

So there you have it. My Next Big Thing. I promise I’ll do everything within my power to stay safe. In the meantime, I’m hoping for warmer weather very soon so I can start riding on the back of that Harley and begin learning all I can about driving it one day.

I wish I could say I did it dancing an Irish jig in a fine pub with a handsome Irishman after putting back a pint of Guinness. But alas, there was no dancing, no fine pub, and no pint. (But there was a handsome Irishman *grin*)

I spent a good portion of Sunday afternoon in the ER learning what I might have done to my already horrific right knee on Saturday night. I’d felt it twist a bit when I stood up from my office chair and turned slightly to put my computer to sleep. (My computer being a rebuilt ProBook laptop, sent to me via my accidental damage warranty, to replace the ProBook that couldn’t handle its liquor. One glass of wine and it was toast. See “Armed and Less Dangerous”) It was nothing too noticeable, nothing painful, until I tried to walk and my knee buckled like an asphalt driveway on a 100-degree day. My kneecap moved all over the place, like a silver ball in a plastic-domed cardboard puzzle. I could NOT get that sucker back in place.

When I awoke the next morning, my knee had swollen to the size of a small cantaloupe. To get downstairs, I had to sit and slide. My toes were numb and my foot was cold. It was time to hit the ER.

The doctor said I most likely sprained it and tore some ligaments, but without an MRI, he couldn’t know exactly what was wrong. One look at my knee on a good day and you know it’s toast. It’s been living on borrowed time since I was 18 and I’ll be 50 in five months. It’s accrued a lot of interest in 32 years. But like an old car you can’t afford to replace, I just keep changing the oil, hoping she’ll give me a few more miles.

We nixed the MRI idea because it would be a waste of time and money. I assumed the doctor would suggest draining the fluid, as I’ve had done many times before, but he said the arthritis and the bone spurs would make draining more difficult and he didn’t want to risk aggravating my knee any further or cause infection. He said I needed to wear a knee stabilizer and follow the RICE principal – rest, ice, compression, elevation.

I waited until he left my room to shed a few tears. This knee dealio couldn’t have come at a worse time. I just adopted a beautiful 18-month-old coon hound/lab mix on Friday. Her original name was Whitney, but she doesn’t look like or act like a Whitney. I thought about Sid, but g-baby Claire said she already has too many Sidney’s in her life (Sidney her best friend and Sidney Crosby, her favorite hockey player). So I named her Alice because I like “White Rabbit” and because her back legs reminded me a little of my great-grandmother Alice’s legs: skinny and slightly bowed.

Except for the three hours I spent out with the Irishman Saturday night, I’ve been with Alice constantly since Friday morning. We’re attached like flies on stink (and she does sometimes stink as her body adjusts to new food…yikes!). Underweight, my job is to help Alice gain 8 pounds, which I’d happily give her if liposuction transfer was possible. Alice’s job is to get me out of the house and be more active. That’s going to be a challenge with a bum knee.

A nurse came in with the brace and she saw me wiping my eyes.

“I want to tell you something…” she began, and I thought, ‘Here we go. Another well-intentioned person who has a friend who has a friend who had her knee replaced when she was 79 and she wondered why she didn’t do it sooner.’ I hear that story all the time.

“I’m 56 and have been an ER nurse for 30 years,” she said. “I’m on my feet for long hours at a time. Several years ago, my right knee started hurting. It kept getting worse until two years ago, I decided to see an orthopedic surgeon. He told me, ‘How in the hell do you expect me to fix something like that when you’re so damn fat?’”

I gasped.

“Yup, that’s what he said. But he replaced my knee and it was the best thing I’d ever done for myself,” she said.

“Wait,” I said, still reeling from her doctor’s comment. “He spoke to you like that and you let him operate?”

She laughed. “He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I know I’m fat. I have been all my life. I’ve never been thin like you.”

As she wrapped my knee in the brace, I thought about all the assumptions floating around the room – hers and mine – and about how much easier it is to assume than it is to remain curious and open-minded.

The older I get, the more I think I know, when the truth is – to quote Smash Mouth – my brain gets smart but my head gets dumb. This is particularly true when it comes to things I fear, like knee replacement. I recycle old, unexamined thoughts or turn a blind eye to the truth.

Isn’t she a beaut? I might be able to get a few more miles out of her (Is there anything a hot bath won’t cure?), but I will give knee replacement a little less resistance and a little more thought, especially now that Alice will be needing my knees to keep up with her for the next 13 years or so.

After celebrating my beautiful daughter’s 30thbirthday last night at a Japanese hibachi grill, I wasn’t sure the five hours of sleep I got and the daylight standard time thing would put me in the mood for outdoor activity today. But when it’s 66 degrees in March AND sunny, and you live in a place where you’re sun-deprived for nine months of the year, you learn real quick how to put on your big girl panties and get out there, despite your sake headache…I mean, sleep deprivation.

Nothing was keeping me off the bike trail. Well, almost nothing. I’ll get to that in a minute.

I dug my bike out from hibernation and pumped up the tires and attached the bag and the odometer/speedometer computer thingy (that’s the technical term, I’m pretty sure). I attached the bike rack to my spare tire (remind me to ask for a trailer hitch and new bike rack for my birthday this year) and hoisted my bike onto it. Then I spent a minute staring at the strap I use to secure the bike to the rack like I’d never seen it before. It’s only been four months and change since I’d done it before, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember how I threaded that thing around my bike. After four tries, those brain cells came back to life and my bike was securely attached to the rack.

I chose to get on the trail in the small town of Marwood because I wanted to see the cows and turkeys I hadn’t seen since October. It’s also where a relatively open part of the trail begins and thought it was my best bet for a dry(er) ride. I shifted my bike into four-wheel drive – relatively speaking – and started pedaling. I never got above 8 miles per hour, the mud was so thick. My lungs and thighs were working overtime. ‘Killer workout!’ I thought. I was psyched.

Then…wham!

Did I mention we had 10 inches of snow last Tuesday? Yeah…I kind of forgot about that.

I turned around and four-wheeled back to the Jeep. I strapped the bike back on the rack, and then took off in the other direction on foot. I had The Black Keys on my iPod and the sun in my face…I was ready to power walk.

On vacation in southern CA, 2008

I knew right away this wasn’t going to be an ordinary walk. Suddenly, it was 2008, and the bike trail had turned into Topanga Beach in southern California. Talk about wet sand! ‘Killer workout’ I thought, and I was psyched for the second time in an hour.

I walked for two miles as briskly as I could, and my thighs and knees felt every step. They will hate me tomorrow, but too bad, so sad. That’s why god created Advil. I need my biking legs back in working order, and the sooner the better. Biking helps me think and work out the mental kinks, and I’ve definitely accumulated some of those over the winter. Have you? What are you looking forward to most as the weather improves and the days get longer?

I got the call at 7:30 last night. Water broke, bags are packed, it’s baby time. I threw a bag together and headed over to the Conti ranch.

The kids were still awake and their nervous excitement was palpable. Cassie and Matt left at 8:15 and the kids waved goodbye. The kids and I talked and read books and by 9:30, they were out like lights.

Audrey Rose is a text baby, similar to Mae. Cassie texted me throughout the night with updates on her status. Two centimeters at 2:30, five at 5:00, seven at 6:30.

“My epidural wore off on the left side. I can’t believe you went natural with us. Shit hurts man.” To which I replied, “I had no choice.”

A few minutes later: “Will be pushing in about 10-15 min. 8 cm.”

I knew the next half hour in Cassie’s world would be beautifully chaotic with pushing and panting, doctor’s commands, blood, pain, and sweat. I saw her birth Claire, so I know she births babies with determination and grace. I also knew my son-in-law was giving her 110 percent. And so I sat in the quiet and played Words With Friends and ate a banana and thought for sure Cassie was birthing a boy.

Claire woke up and came downstairs and sat next to me on a stool. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s the baby, a boy or girl?”

I told her I didn’t know yet. She asked for a banana and she showed me how she peels them. Claire had climbed in bed with me at 2:30 and we talked for an hour before she fell back to sleep and did her typical Claire arm dive onto my nose a few times. Queen sized bed and the girl sleeps right next to me. I’d want it no other way.

At 7:15, my son-in-law sent the first photo of the baby: “It’s Audrey Rose! 6 lbs 14 oz!”

I was wrong again. I’m 0 for 4 on grandbaby gender guessing. Do NOT take me to Vegas.

“You have a sister!” I told Claire and showed her the photo.

“Ohhhh! She’s so cuuuute! It’s a really, really pretty name!”

I texted and called family and friends as Claire typed the alphabet on my computer: Abcdefghijklnmopqrstuvwxyz

“Why are people so excited?” Claire asked, as my phone dinged and dinged.

“Because so many people want to know who Audrey is,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, and kept typing.

Luca woke up and was in the bathroom doing his business. Claire went upstairs and said, “You were right! We have a sister! Her name is Audrey Rose!”

“Awwwww….that’s so cuuuute!” said Luca, flushing the toilet.

“Wash your hands!” I yelled up the stairs.

“I did!” he said.

“Dude, there’s no way you washed your hands yet. Wash them!” I said. The water turned on. I won.

Luca sat on my lap as I continued my texting quest. He typed his own line on my computer: jhzg4etreegrfetsgqwhewfhtrthygtyhy56htreh…. Naming each letter and number as he typed.

Matt sent me another photo of Audrey and I showed the kids.

“Are we gonna have THAT baby?” Luca asked. Yes, dude, that’s the one who’s going to live in your house for the next 18 years, at least.

Mae woke up at 8:15 and I brought her downstairs. I showed her the photos of Audrey.

“Mommy’s baby,” she said over and over.

“Yes, that’s Mommy’s baby. Her name is Audrey.” Mae insisted I keep Audrey’s photo on my computer screen. If I responded to something on Facebook, she’d say, “See Mommy’s baby!” and I’d have to bring the photo back on the screen. Like Luca, I don’t think she fully understands that “Mommy’s baby” is coming home to stay on Thursday.

In a few hours I’ll hold Audrey Rose for the first time. If there is ever a more perfect moment than holding a newborn baby, I don’t know what it is.

Today is my father’s birthday. He is 82. He is beyond thrilled that his great-granddaughter shares his birthdate. Dad has understood the precarious nature of life since he was a child. His father died when Dad was 6 and his mother was 9 months pregnant with his brother. There is no more perfect gift to him today than Audrey Rose.

But my perfect gift today wasn’t Audrey. While her being here is awesome and I can’t wait to get to know her, my perfect gift was a text from my son-in-law. I had thanked him for Audrey, to which he replied, “Hey, thanks for Cassie. She’s just an awesome woman.”

Grandbaby #4 will be here sometime in the next…oh…few, several, maybe ten days…who knows…which means my phone is never off and always charged.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but then, does a mother ever get used to worrying about her children? Cassie has had fairly easy pregnancies and deliveries, but still, it’s difficult to accept there isn’t one thing I can do to guarantee she and the baby will be fine. This isn’t a skinned knee we’re talking about.

And as if worry wasn’t enough, self-doubt joined the fun. Do I have what it takes to be a good support to my daughter and her husband? A good Grammy to four children?

I’ve eaten my way through those questions more than a few times and…you guessed it…I got no answers. Just a sluggish feeling with a side of guilt.

You know the saying, “You can’t see the forest for the trees”? Yeah, well, sometimes the answers I seek can’t be found because I’m looking in the wrong place. Leave it to a 5-year-old to be my guiding prophet.

Last night I took Claire to her taekwondo class. On the ride there, she talked about who will be at her house to take care of her when her mommy’s having the baby. She rattled off a list of all the people she wants around her: me, Papa Larry, Grandma Julia, Papa Frank, Auntie Carly and Uncle Ben. She said she wanted to sleep in her bed tent and wanted Luca to sleep in her secret hiding place (AKA, her closet, which has a sheer curtain for a door and lots of pillows inside. No mention of where Mae would be in all this. Luca is her best friend. Mae’s someone she escapes from once in awhile.)

Claire was talking faster than usual and I realized she was seeking reassurance that everything will be OK, that if she woke up one morning and Mommy and Daddy weren’t there, that she would not be alone. And it hit me. I know how to do that! I know how to make Claire feel safe. I’ve been doing it for more than five years!

When I woke up this morning, I made my intention for the day to be mindful of how I was taking care of myself so that I could best take care of the people who need my help. I have no control over how or when gbaby arrives, but I can control what goes in my mouth and my physical activity.

Mae, Cassie, Claire and Luca. #4 is in there somewhere!

So with a bit of new-found courage, I threw on some clothes, ate a sensible breakfast, and headed over to Cassie’s to watch the kids so she could go to her OB appointment in peace. I sat on the couch and all three kids grabbed their blankies and snuggled up around me. I asked Cassie how I’d possibly have room for another baby and she said, “You have long arms. They’ll all fit.” When I got home, I worked out for the first time in two weeks. The endorphins were like long-lost friends. I’d missed them so.

Over the next few days, I will do what I’ve done the other three times: prepare and freeze meals for the family. And when Cassie comes home from the hospital, greeting her on the stove will be a pot of wild rice soup, and in the oven, tater tot hotdish. There’s a place for food to offer comfort. It’s just not a very good counselor.